“But women cry so often, and for almost anything, Dahlia.”

“Rhoda cries with her hands closed hard, and her eyelids too.”

“Well, that maybe her way.”

“I have only seen her cry once, and that was when mother was dying, and asked her to fetch a rose from the garden.  I met her on the stairs.  She was like wood.  She hates crying.  She loves me so.”

The sympathetic tears rolled down Dahlia’s cheeks.

“So, you quite refuse to see your father?” he asked.

“Not yet!”

“Not yet,” he repeated.

At the touch of scorn in his voice, she exclaimed: 

“Oh, Edward! not yet, I cannot.  I know I am weak.  I can’t meet him now.  If my Rhoda had come alone, as I hoped—! but he is with her.  Don’t blame me, Edward.  I can’t explain.  I only know that I really have not the power to see him.”

Edward nodded.  “The sentiment some women put into things is inexplicable,” he said.  “Your sister and father will return home.  They will have formed their ideas.  You know how unjust they will be.  Since, however, the taste is for being a victim—­eh?”

London lodging-house rooms in Winter when the blinds are down, and a cheerless fire is in the grate, or when blinds are up and street-lamps salute the inhabitants with uncordial rays, are not entertaining places of residence for restless spirits.  Edward paced about the room.  He lit a cigar and puffed at it fretfully.

“Will you come and try one of the theatres for an hour?” he asked.

She rose submissively, afraid to say that she thought she should look ill in the staring lights; but he, with great quickness of perception, rendered her task easier by naming the dress she was to wear, the jewels, and the colour of the opera cloak.  Thus prompted, Dahlia went to her chamber, and passively attired herself, thankful to have been spared the pathetic troubles of a selection of garments from her wardrobe.  When she came forth, Edward thought her marvellously beautiful.

Pity that she had no strength of character whatever, nor any pointed liveliness of mind to match and wrestle with his own, and cheer the domestic hearth!  But she was certainly beautiful.  Edward kissed her hand in commendation.  Though it was practically annoying that she should be sad, the hue and spirit of sadness came home to her aspect.  Sorrow visited her tenderly falling eyelids like a sister.

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